


Entremetteuse

by craple



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Intoxication, Jealousy, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pre-Slash, and she makes money, she's just awesome in general, Éponine is awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-16
Updated: 2013-03-16
Packaged: 2017-12-05 11:07:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/722545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/craple/pseuds/craple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras gets kissed by someone. Grantaire gets drunk – more so than ever. Èponine gets caught in the crossfire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Entremetteuse

**Author's Note:**

> this comes out of the blue.  
> GRANTAIRE'S EYES ARE SO LOVELY AREN'T THEY.

They find him sprawling on a velvet-longue in one of the best clubs in the city; a woman on his lap, kissing down his neck, and another man on his side, ravishing his lips like there’s no tomorrow.

It is possible that Èponine, of all people – the healthiest of them all, who exercises almost as often as Enjolras is – may get a heart attack in the middle of said club whilst her friends are looking for Grantaire, somewhere. The amount of drinks Grantaire has consumed is uncountable, looking at the dozen or so _bottles_ on the table with three empty glasses that tells her he hasn’t been alone.

Suffice to say, Èponine’s glad she’s the one who found him first. She knows of Grantaire’s drinking habit and the reason it gets worse, like the time when they were young and he fought with his parents. Or the time when someone broke her heart and they drank until dawn. If anyone were to see Grantaire like this, it is obvious that they will judge him, which would inevitably lead to disaster.

Making her way through the crowd, Èponine pays the bartender for everything, plus some considerable amount of tips for keeping up with Grantaire, as is appropriate. It’s a miracle that she somehow manages to get both parties having their way with Grantaire _in public_ to leave.

Bringing his arm around her shoulders as she helps him to his feet, Èponine texts everyone that Grantaire’s safe, tells them he’s okay, that they’re on their way to her car, and that she’s going to take care of him tonight like she does every other night he’s like this. Grantaire buries his face into the crook of her neck before straightening to get some of his weight off her.

He smiles and it’s sad and lost and so _distant_ , she doesn’t take her arm around his waist and pulls him closer. “Oh, R, I’m so sorry,” she murmurs, low for his ears only. Grantaire laughs, sharp and bitter, the sound of it breaking her heart.

“’S not your fault, Ponine,” he replies, rubbing a soothing hand down her back. “It’s not your fault.” He places a soft kiss on her forehead, her left cheek, stopping at the corner of her lips with another smile, this time genuine, and she is reminded of their time since elementary school, when he asked her out after she punched his face, and she really wishes she can punch someone who made him feel like this.

Although, that someone is not really at fault here, seeing that he isn’t even _aware_ of Grantaire’s state of mind. Isn’t even aware of just _how much_ he loves him still. Èponine swallows the similar bitter feeling down, and does not want to remind herself of what a disaster that incident with Marius and Cosette on eighth grade was.

Grantaire hooks an arm around her shoulders, the fake drunk-staggers done and forgotten, and he follows her obediently toward the parking lot without protest. She doesn’t let him smoke when he reaches for his pack, the last one he has on the back pocket of his jeans. And he doesn’t comment when _she_ takes it instead; places the butt between her lips, lights the tip and inhales like a starving man depraved of air.

Her car is parked right outside the club, facing the back door instead of the front, as she has expected for where Grantaire is to be found. The metallic midnight-blue paint is a stark contrast next to Enjolras’ red Camaro, of which was not _there_ when she arrived, and was also currently being leaned against by the driver himself, all in his scarlet glory.

Èponine tries not to look threatening. Keeps her face carefully blank, the acid completely removed from her voice as she asks, “Enjolras?” feigns surprise, _feigns surprise_. “What are you doing here? I thought you had something to take care of?” she tries to keep Grantaire on her side, fingers clenching tight around the bunched up material of his shirt, and Enjolras’ eyes flick briefly to her hand around Grantaire’s waist before focussing on her.

“I was worried,” Enjolras says, matter-of-fact. Face scrunches up in this adorable little – no, she is _not_ going to go there, Èponine is _pissed_ at this man, which means she is _not_ going to find him adorable, strictly under this circumstance. Enjolras continues, as if she is not, as of present, planning his murder in 1001 different ways. “Grantaire’s gone before the meeting even _started_. I thought something happened to _him_.”

Way to go to put the blame on someone else, Èponine thinks, bitterly. But then she reminds herself that Enjolras _doesn’t know_ , that this not his fault – not directly, not even _close_ – how he is such a nice person on good days, can probably be an asshole even during said good days unconsciously. Èponine is not stupid. She can see the appeal, from Enjolras light golden skin, the soft golden curls around his head. The bright, bright eyes that is simply captivating. It’s no wonder Grantaire is in love.

Clamping down the urge to assault Enjolras right this instant, Èponine shifts Grantaire so he is not leaning too much of his weight against her, forcing him to move toward her car. “He’s fine, as you can see,” she says. “You can go back to the meeting now, Enjolras, we’ll be fine.”

“Of course we will,” Grantaire quips, from where he is nuzzling her neck. “ _Anything_ is better than to stay there and watch you _charm_ everyone to your needs.” Èponine winces at his choice of words.

It’s common knowledge that, on good days, Grantaire’s words can be sharp and cutting, the way he transfers it to another who listens polite ever so. On bad days such as this, there is nothing to mask the bitterness, the meaning behind his words clear and downright _cruel_. It’s hard not to feel sorry for Enjolras, who frowns at him in confusion.

“What are you talking about? Grantaire,” when Enjolras moves, reaching out toward them both, Èponine steadies her stance in order not to fall as Grantaire flinches backward, away. The flash of hurt on Enjolras’ face doesn’t disappear, and it stays there as Grantaire untangles his body away from hers to open the passenger’s seat, muttering ‘don’t’ and crude words under his breath.

Enjolras channels all his negative feelings to Èponine, who looks at him exasperatedly in return. Guiltily, he looks down and away, and it is clear that he’s hurt and confused, as to why Grantaire is acting this way. The longing and confusion in his eyes telling her that there is something – there _can_ be _something_ between them, if Enjolras figures it out properly, on his own terms.

The thought of Grantaire and Enjolras together is not a concept Èponine is against, and she is not ashamed to say that she often uses images of them together, in the intimate sense of word, every night when her bed is too cold and her body is too warm. It also makes her happy, to know that Grantaire has a chance. She’s always known, of course, along with Combeferre and everyone else with eyes.

Maybe what they need is a push in the right direction. At this point, subtlety is never going to be enough.

Adjusting her jacket snug around her body, Èponine looks at Enjolras straight in the eye, the way she always does when she wants attention. “Clearly, I am not going to apologise on his behalf. Grantaire is drunk,”

“Isn’t he always,” Enjolras interjects dryly.

“Grantaire is _drunk_ ,” she repeats, emphasises the last word with venom. Forcing her temper under control. “He is drunk more than he ever has, and this is not the first time. You are worried about him, I know. As his best friend since we were young, it’s my job to take care of him when he’s like this, and also my job to tell you that the two of you need to _talk_.”

Behind the windshield, Grantaire sleeps soundly against the leather seat. Tell-tale of hickeys forming on the surface of his skin, pale and smooth, the sharp juncture of his collarbone peeking through the v-neck shirt he always picks when he’s trying to get laid.

“Think about it,” Èponine says, refocusing her attention back to Enjolras. “Every time Grantaire is like this, we never tell you. Think why we never do. Make up some reasons, or charts plastered to your walls if you want to. Think about why he never tells you when he disappeared for a night and came back staggering, ignoring you for the entire week, until he’s drunk enough to _forget_.”

“Are you saying this is my fault? That I – I did something?” asks Enjolras, absolutely terrified.

“What? No, I didn’t say that.” The forming of headache is hard enough to make her rub her temples, tiredly. For someone so clever, Enjolras can be very dense. “You guys have issues, and I get it. You don’t like Grantaire, but you tolerate him enough to let him sleep on your bed and walking around the dorm in your clothes. Don’t even deny it, cause I’ve got it recorded. I see the way you look at him, and I’m not stupid to think of the attention you’re giving him is innocent.

“You’re frustrated, and I get it. It took me four months to get Grantaire off my back, but once you get to know him, he’s quite nice.”

“I _know_ he’s nice, you don’t have to lecture me about it,” Enjolras snaps. She looks at him, surprised, and he looks apologetic again in a second. “Sorry, it’s just. Yes, okay? Yes to everything. I just,” then the look of realisation dawns on him. “Wait, is that what this is about? In the meeting, when Moira kissed me, is that why he left?” hope and something akin to fondness cross his face. “Was Grantaire jealous?”

 _Not such a dense boy after all_ , Èponine thinks, with a smile, and smirks. “I am neither confirming nor denying your suspicion as of why our dear Grantaire left,” she says. “But all I’m saying is that you clearly need to talk things out, but not now. Not when he’s passed out on my seat, looking like a porn star out of work.”

Cataloguing the rise of flush on Enjolras’ cheeks, Èponine smiles, gets into the passenger seat then drives away.

\--

The next day, the only reason she knows that everything’s worked out, in the end, is because when she arrives at Grantaire’s room with coffee and hangover pills; she finds Grantaire on top of Enjolras, hands working frantically to remove every single article of Enjolras’ clothing whilst Enjolras moans and shoves his hand down Grantaire’s pants.

Èponine makes sure she take a good clear picture of the aftermath of their ‘talk’ and uploads it on Facebook, where the next day she receives a handful of money from her friends who put a bet on how long Grantaire and Enjolras hold on with being ‘friends’ until one of them gives up and ravishes the other.

Life is good.


End file.
